quidamling (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quidamling) wrote2008-10-23 09:10 pm
quidamling) wrote2008-10-23 09:10 pm
Entry tags:
Forward
this.... is Imogen Heap (The Walk) coming on at an opportune moment of Ratch and 'Hide banter.
so, blather that follows is the result of that banter converted semi-faithfully to ficlet-ish-ness.
and the tempo change around 2:30 of the song.
therefore, have to credit Ratch-mun with half the (good) ideas and about as many of the (more interesting) words.
♥'s for Sugarkitteh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It began as a slow smirk, putting a hand on his hip while he peered at the other.
The reply was a heated gaze, knowing the results usually inherent in that look. He made a low questioning hum, feigning ignorance and innocence.
One elegant arch of an optic ridge, not buying the act for a moment. What he wasn’t expecting was the mech slipping to his side, and taking the hand still hanging loose by his thigh.
Then the mech stepped backwards, pulling the bright light of Ratchet in a slow orbit around black, timed to music only Ironhide heard.
The Hummer’s optics shifted, a confused and curious look, but he turns around the TopKick.
Black slid right into the medic’s personal space, close enough that their armor grazed, rasping softly against each other. He holds Ratchet’s waist, cradling his back with his forearm and pulls in a smooth, carefully stepped spin. Deep blues looked into lighter, love and lust and playful amusement swam in the depths.
Ratch’s engine slips a hint of a purr, he matches the gaze. Chartreuse fingers weave, linking together with gray; thumb sliding down to wrist joint, drifting over plating. Other hand instinctively moves to broad hip gearing, linking their frames together.
A low churr from the bulkier mech replies. ‘Hide squeezes the hand in his own. Digs quickly through deep recesses of memories, having acted before processors where aware of the game. Finds simple steps, long buried but learned in his younglinghood and leads the CMO through a series of turns.
The Hummer laughs, gentle mirth at his companion and moves with the TopKick. He recognizes the dance, having been a regular in more refined societies than the soldier before the war stole both of their lives. The steps are basic, and the medic is content to let Ironhide lead. Simple, but elegant; not unlike the soldier himself.
Ironhide finds himself touched by the easy joy from Ratch. The ghost of a true, genuine smile flits across his faceplates. The pattern emerges.
Forward; one, beat, three four. Back; one, beat, three four. Repeated, and again. Spin, two, three, four. The light click, softer than multi-ton hunks of machinery should be capable of formed a staccato syncopated rhythm. Slowly inscribing a large star on the floor.
The Chief Medic makes a low, delighted purr, moving easily. “I didn't know you could dance,” he whispers softly, almost not wanting to shatter the moment with speech.
But the weapons specialist simply purrs back, shifting hands as he leads Hummer through a spin and back to his chest. Only then does he chuckle, making a half shrug. “Learned at some point,” murmured against audio as they move. “A good partner helps.”
Ratch smiles, “Could teach you more steps...” he offers, pulling back enough to eye their feet.
Optics flashed, the pace picked up and hands moved.
A whirling spin, crossing arms above Ratchet’s head; breaking, a gray hand slid behind his neck and wound down his arm to recapture the hand. Stepping alongside and reaching across each other’s chests, swinging in an arc and slipping face to face before returning.
Casting the Hummer out and coiling him back to a black chest.
Then Ironhide cycled them back into the standard pattern of the dance. Pressing a smug kiss to the Hummer’s parted and shocked lips.
“Good enough?”
so, blather that follows is the result of that banter converted semi-faithfully to ficlet-ish-ness.
and the tempo change around 2:30 of the song.
therefore, have to credit Ratch-mun with half the (good) ideas and about as many of the (more interesting) words.
♥'s for Sugarkitteh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It began as a slow smirk, putting a hand on his hip while he peered at the other.
The reply was a heated gaze, knowing the results usually inherent in that look. He made a low questioning hum, feigning ignorance and innocence.
One elegant arch of an optic ridge, not buying the act for a moment. What he wasn’t expecting was the mech slipping to his side, and taking the hand still hanging loose by his thigh.
Then the mech stepped backwards, pulling the bright light of Ratchet in a slow orbit around black, timed to music only Ironhide heard.
The Hummer’s optics shifted, a confused and curious look, but he turns around the TopKick.
Black slid right into the medic’s personal space, close enough that their armor grazed, rasping softly against each other. He holds Ratchet’s waist, cradling his back with his forearm and pulls in a smooth, carefully stepped spin. Deep blues looked into lighter, love and lust and playful amusement swam in the depths.
Ratch’s engine slips a hint of a purr, he matches the gaze. Chartreuse fingers weave, linking together with gray; thumb sliding down to wrist joint, drifting over plating. Other hand instinctively moves to broad hip gearing, linking their frames together.
A low churr from the bulkier mech replies. ‘Hide squeezes the hand in his own. Digs quickly through deep recesses of memories, having acted before processors where aware of the game. Finds simple steps, long buried but learned in his younglinghood and leads the CMO through a series of turns.
The Hummer laughs, gentle mirth at his companion and moves with the TopKick. He recognizes the dance, having been a regular in more refined societies than the soldier before the war stole both of their lives. The steps are basic, and the medic is content to let Ironhide lead. Simple, but elegant; not unlike the soldier himself.
Ironhide finds himself touched by the easy joy from Ratch. The ghost of a true, genuine smile flits across his faceplates. The pattern emerges.
Forward; one, beat, three four. Back; one, beat, three four. Repeated, and again. Spin, two, three, four. The light click, softer than multi-ton hunks of machinery should be capable of formed a staccato syncopated rhythm. Slowly inscribing a large star on the floor.
The Chief Medic makes a low, delighted purr, moving easily. “I didn't know you could dance,” he whispers softly, almost not wanting to shatter the moment with speech.
But the weapons specialist simply purrs back, shifting hands as he leads Hummer through a spin and back to his chest. Only then does he chuckle, making a half shrug. “Learned at some point,” murmured against audio as they move. “A good partner helps.”
Ratch smiles, “Could teach you more steps...” he offers, pulling back enough to eye their feet.
Optics flashed, the pace picked up and hands moved.
A whirling spin, crossing arms above Ratchet’s head; breaking, a gray hand slid behind his neck and wound down his arm to recapture the hand. Stepping alongside and reaching across each other’s chests, swinging in an arc and slipping face to face before returning.
Casting the Hummer out and coiling him back to a black chest.
Then Ironhide cycled them back into the standard pattern of the dance. Pressing a smug kiss to the Hummer’s parted and shocked lips.
“Good enough?”